


When You're Dead

by thetickingclock18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Mass Effect
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetickingclock18/pseuds/thetickingclock18
Summary: It's near end of the 22nd century and apocalypse is approaching. The galaxy is still unprepared, the Reapers are coming, and the only person who can stop them is... dead? Well, Mr. Potter will fix that.





	

Disclaimer: The Bioware's Mass Effect games and JKR's Harry Potter series are not mine.

Shepard was falling from the ship. She could see the burning embers that engulfed the Normandy as the explosions shook it apart… Only a moment ago it had still been in all its glory, crew riding off their rush of victory from the battle at the Citadel. An unlikely ambush was all it took to end the legend of Commander Shepard.

The enemy ship was only a miniature dot in her vision as it turned to exit and disappeared into FTL speeds. Its work was done.

Her oxygen tank and shoulder was still punctured from the explosion near the escape pod. She wouldn't be able to survive in space for long. The cold of space started to seep in the cracks of her armor. A brief spike of pain, before a shudder of cold and numbness spread up her chest. Death was inevitable.

Her thoughts drifted towards the rest of Normandy's crew. The ones that made it to the escape pods would be fine. Someone would eventually pick up the Normandy's distress call and come to investigate. The ones that had perished during the hull breaches… she hadn't had the time to account for all of her crew. The injured or dead were still trapped aboard the ship. At least she had managed to save Joker. They would need his wisecracks to lighten the mood during the funerals.

She felt herself being slowly pulled into the orbit of the ice planet below. Her suit's oxygen levels were hitting rock bottom. She would probably suffocate before she experienced atmospheric reentry.

Her crew could carry on without her. They had to. They all knew the true threat of the Reapers. Even with her limbs dead, her hands clenched into fists.

Breathing was getting laborious. Shepard knew she had moments left. A pounding began in the back of her skull. Her body knew she was about to die.

It was a romantic notion, Shepard thought. The captain going down with her ship.

And then she was falling into the darkness…

Falling…

Last thing she was aware of after was the terrible headache that accompanied her to the void.

. .

A burning core pulsed at the heart of its star. Deep fiery streams of plasma and dark spots swam across the surface, the shifting auroras defined by the star's immense magnetic fields. The superheated tendrils undulated between their many shades of red and blue.

Behind a polarized curtain, the star was as bewildering as it was incredible to look upon. Without it, the true nature was indiscernible.

The Illusive Man turned his attention from the star's magnificence to the haptic interface at his side.

"How is Shepard's body, Miranda?"

A woman's face appeared on the display, bearing remarkable resemblance to a long-dead actress.

"Heavily damaged, but still recoverable. A preliminary scan reveals injury to major organs. A clone may be necessary in case of one is unsalvagable. Thankfully, the neural system is still intact. I've forwarded an analysis on tentative project costs."

He removed a cigarette from his coat pocket and ignited its end using a burner on his expensive cantilever chair. Miranda Lawson looked on with practiced patience. After all, the Illusive Man was a slow and habitual smoker. He could smoke a stick for hours easily and through multiple conversations.

He took a long draught before continuing.

"That's fine. I'm confident that our prototype cybernetics will be able to restore Shepard. What of Feron and Dr.T'Soni?"

"Feron, the drell, was left behind in the Shadow Broker's base on Alingon. We should assume that he has already been interrogated and the Shadow Broker will have any knowledge that he did on Cerberus dealings."

He tapped the smoking end on the chair arm to dislodge the ashes.

"A disappointing loss, but also acceptable. Go on."

"Liara T'Soni is onboard the Minuteman Station currently. From what I can tell, the asari was quite close to Feron. I've let her stay on the station for another two days, until one of our shuttles can transport her to Illium." The Cerberus operative hesitated. "She was critical in Shepard's retrieval, sir, and I think—"

He set the cigarette down.

"I want you to keep an eye on her, Miranda. Undoubtedly T'Soni will want retribution. Give her the necessary resources she'll need to fight the Shadow Broker."

He pulled an outlying display closer and tapped on it a few times.

"She doesn't seem the type to willingly trust help from Cerberus, sir."

"A people are willing to do anything when their friends are in danger. We present T'Soni her best chance to find Feron. She won't refuse."

"Understood."

"Then is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"That is all."

"Excellent. You are dismissed."

"Lawson out." The transmission cut. The Illusive Man was left alone with silence and a sense of satisfaction.

He switched screens to a diagram of a woman's body. Measurements and analysis from an autopsy. Pieces of armor that had been recovered, but the helmet and chestpiece was missing. Several areas —sides, extremities— were highlighted with red. After a moment's consideration, he deleted it.

Turning his attention back to the brilliant sphere outside, he picked up his cigarette.

"We're close."

. .

Her eyes fluttered open. Groaning, Shepard rolled over and got off her bed.

"What…"

She sleepily grabbed for the table where she usually left her omnitool. The orange screen appeared and the room lights activated, revealing the commander's cabin. She checked the digital clock. It was blank. No numbers displayed.

"Huh." She frowned.

There was a twinge of phantom pain, but Jane brushed it off and blindly found her way towards the bathroom. She felt her pupils shrink as they acclimatized to the brightness.

Shepard made a move to get dressed but found that she was already wearing her uniform. She must've been too exhausted last night to remember switching back into her sleeping gown.

Exiting the captain's quarters, Shepard thought the Normandy looked emptier than normal. Then it clicked— Kaidan wasn't at his usual station.

A boyish crewman saluted her good morning and she nodded back.

"Mr. Crosby. Where is the rest of the crew?"

"In their rooms or at their stations, ma'am. Officer Pressly is waiting for you on deck."

So, already morning then. Shepard hoped that she hadn't slept too late. Problem with the omnitool forgotten, she moved towards the back of the ship. Her arms felt a little stiff, so she rubbed them absentmindedly.

There she found her XO at the CIC, his normal station. However, the galaxy map was blank. Pressly turned to face her and gave a salute.

"The ship almost ready to leave. The journey won't be the same without Jeff, but I doubt we'll have difficulty taking off." He pulled up a screen on the Normandy's supplies.

Shepard shook her head, confused.

"Leave? Where are we going?"

Pressly's expression suddenly turned solemn. He took his hand off the galaxy map. Shepard looked on, not understanding but with a feeling of dread slowly creeping upon her.

"You really don't remember, Jane?"

"Remember? I…" She took a step back.

Flashes. Falling. The cold and numbness of space. Explosions. Joker in an escape pod. Pressly's unconscious form lying on the bridge. And then everything fell into place. She looked back to her XO, as if seeing him in a new light.

"So it wasn't just a nightmare after all."

Pressly sighed deeply, also recollecting.

"I'm afraid not."

Shepard closed her eyes and her thoughts flashed back to her final moments. Everyone serving on board the Normandy knew the risks. She hadn't been afraid of dying, and she wasn't going to now.

"So this is it. The Normandy's final flight. Wh-who's onboard with us?"

"You, me, and nineteen others of the crew so far," He replied, checking a list he pulled up, "Joker and the team must have made it out safely."

Shepard nodded to confirm his data, relieved. It could have been worse.

"And now what?"

He paused, shoulders stiffening.

"Where do people go after they die, commander?"

She had no answer.

"Then I guess we'll just have to find out for ourselves." He muttered to himself, before accessing the ship's coms. "Crew! Disengage landing gear! Prepare for takeoff!" He turned to the commander.

Shepard hesitated.

"I..."

Pressly read something from her expression.

"I know it's not easy, Jane. We'll be fine to wait just a little longer, see if anyone shows up. Take the time you need."

"Thank you, Charles."

Shepard returned to her cabin. She now realized the strange apathy she saw on the rest of her crew's faces reflected their state of shock. Death hadn't sunk in yet.

It was exactly as she remembered it, right before the attack had deactivated the artificial gravity and thrown all her things across the room. Neat rows of pictures sat on her counters. Memorabilia and family and the team on the Normandy.

She took a deep breath. No crying.

"Dammit!" Shepard grabbed the model of Sovereign she had received and hurled it at a wall in rage. Without her there, nobody would be left to spread the warnings or prepare. All life in the galaxy will be harvested by the reaper's decree. Well, at least that meant she would have more company.

Shepard sat down and stared at the miniature metal model, huffing.

"Never thought afterlife would be like this…"

She suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to get out. Normandy was once a symbol of belonging and freedom to her— now it just felt like a suffocating tomb.

. .

The Normandy was parked in an open roof hangar. The sky above her was pale blue filled with beautiful bright clouds that reminded Jane of Earth and Eden Prime.

The hangar was strange, too. It lacked the bustle of flight staff checking the crew and ship parts, no machinery or cables or landing lights on the walls or even halls leading to other hangars.

There was a door near the back. A wide-cut window gave view to a room full of monitors and a man working at the station. Jane twisted the doorknob and the steel door opened easily. It didn't feel right. She hadn't seen an actual doorknob since she left the military academy. Inside the room was a desk, a keyboard, and a few old-fashioned, non-holographic monitors that gave Shepard flashbacks to vids of the twenty first century.

The flight dispatcher was wearing a naval working uniform and tapping through numerous status screens, muttering to himself. Jane closed the door behind her and walked up behind him.

The screens flickered to another slide. It looked like the profile of a crewmember.

"It's a real hassle, organizing all these ship departures." The operator said without looking up. His fingers flew and the screen rolled down. Addison Chase— parents infirm and little sister not yet out of school. One of the screens showed a video recording of a young, pigtailed girl playing with flowers. A few others displayed familial connections and status— all deceased.

He grunted and crossed out the name on the flight list.

"This one's got too much baggage. He'll have to stay behind until it's dealt with."

He swiveled his chair to face the woman standing behind him.

"Hey there. You going too?"

Shepard shook her head.

"Not yet."

The operator shrugged and turned his attention back to the monitors.

"What's going to happen to him?" Shepard asked carefully.

"Mr. Chase? He'll be stuck here, wandering around and watching those ships come and go until he's ready to leave. Make his peace, so to speak."

"Go where?"

"Heaven. Or something similar. It's all a matter of perspective, of course." The operator waved a hand to gesture at the hangar.

"Can you believe? A century ago this place was just a dingy old train station. Okay, well it wasn't that dingy."

"A one-way train station." She observed.

The man sighed. "Yeah. Once you leave, you don't come back." He reached for a cup at his side. "Unless there are some really special circumstances involved… Coffee?"

A waft of the awakening-aroma reached Shepard. It was invigorating— a breath of clearness and purpose that reminded her of life. She started, and looked around. The surroundings were already returning to their original drab colorless. What was this place doing to her?

"No thanks."

The operator —but Shepard doubted that was all he was— shrugged again and took a sip.

"Coffee," he repeated, "it's the best-tasting stuff around here. That and apples."

She ignored the comment. Instead...

"Is there a way out of here?"

The man considered it. She suddenly became more conscious on where her thoughts were leading. How did someone simply leave afterlife?

"Well, you could always try that door." He mused and tilted his head towards another door on the other side of the room.

She walked around, trying to disguise the eagerness in her footsteps, and twisted the doorknob. It was locked. The clinging hope inside her wilted.

"I said special circumstances, didn't I?" He commented. "You'll need a key to open it."

Shepard spun around.

"I have a mission... And I can't leave my team behind like this! The entire galaxy will be at stake…"

"Why don't you trust your team to carry on the mission?"

"I have to be there— I can't go until I've seen the Reapers finally defeated!"

He shook his head, sighing. Did everyone who passed through tell him the same? How many resentful souls had he denied?

"Death doesn't do favors."

Shepard walked back to his desk, reigning in her outburst. She would stay calm.

"Look— the reapers come back and you'll have billions of people coming through here. You'll be here checking out flight departures forever. And then when everybody leaves, you'll have no one left to talk with."

"So what do I do? Let you go back and experience whatever time is left remaining in your life?"

"No. Let me go back and stop them."

He paused, forcedly smiling a little. His eyes looking through her fondly, as if she was somebody else. An old friend...

"You? A little, young woman fighting fleets of titanic, million-year-old space squids?"

Shepard wasn't fazed.

"Surely you noticed the two kilometer long one coming through a few months back? Along with a crazy turian called Saren? Or maybe it was too big to fit in the hangar here."

Surprised, the operator laughed— a genuine one this time— and turned back to his console.

"You've got wit. I like that."

He typed in a name and the screens flickered.

"Commander Jane Shepard of the SSV Normandy. Soldier and biotic adept of the Systems Alliance N7 Special Forces. Spectre of the Citadel Council. Paragon Rating: 65 percent. Renegade: 27 percent."

An outside ring of previously dark monitors glowed as the screens struggled to display everything, a web of information growing larger and larger.

"Date of Birth: April 11, 2154 CE. Date of death: May 1, 2183. Childhood had you grow up in an orphanage of the metropolis Regina, Earth. Adopted at eight by Steven Coln and his wife, brought to the nation of Japan for a year. Then your adopted family moved again to the colony of Mindoir, a family-owned plantation. At sixteen there was the pirate attack, and you were transferred to Alliance custody. At eighteen you finally enlisted for the military, already a full-fledged spacer. Only twenty two when you participated in repelling the attack at Elysium, a big war hero. Tweny three when your marine unit was ambushed and slaughtered by a Thresher Maw. Twenty six when you finished N7 training. At twenty nine, you earned the title of Commander in the Alliance Navy, bestowed Spectre privileges by the Citadel Council, defeated the rogue Spectre Saren, and then was killed after an attack from an unidentified ship."

More blank screens flickered on at the fringes of the mass. The operator nodded to her.

"Did I get it all?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Shepard replied distractedly. Her eyes shifted between the screens. There was a vid of her as a little kid back in her orphanage days, taken in by a friendly matron. Blurred photos of her growing up, grim photos of dirty overalls, bruised complexions, faint outlines of knives that could be seen through her ripped, fraying pants. Then clear, happier ones in Mindoir. Pictures of family and friends that she thought had been lost in the batarian raids. Evidently, her deceased parents had brought some with them to the other side.

Then there was her in the Alliance uniform. Visiting in Rio de Janeiro. A photo of a thresher maw corpse on Akuze. Her in N7 armor. A brand new Normandy. Then a whole panel of badges— Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Medal, Distinguished Combat Medal, Medal of Valor, Spectre Inductee, N7 Elite, and a whole lot of other ones that she didn't know she had.

The last screen was a vid with a timestamp fairly recent— in fact, it was posted some time after her death. A newsreel of her funeral.

She didn't see the operator's smile widen at her sharp intake of breath.

It was Kaiden and Joker and Liara and Garrus and Tali and Wrex. A picture of her rested on the wall above the mahogany coffin. Her mahogany coffin. They took turns, putting things on the empty casket. Flowers, photos, and a gun (which made her snort). Anderson went up on the podium in front of the attendees to make a speech, no doubt to commemorate the Normandy, and Joker followed after him, looking miserable all the while. The rest of the team weren't in a talkative mood. It was humbling, in a way, to see all the people that had come to remember her. But it also made stronger her need to return.

"A sudden departure always leaves a void. But people move on, Shepard. Then they find new things to fill their hearts."

The operator turned around, looking gravely serious.

"You go back— things will have changed. People will have changed. Your friends might not recognize you anymore. Your friends might already have families— might be retired or dead. You might come back to the living before spaceflight was invented, or a hundred years after the Reapers put raze to the galaxy. You might have to start over."

The bright background of glowing squares framed his chair and cast the features of his face into darkness. The body he wore like a costume dissipated into it, leaving only his eyes— and his true nature—behind. Only the scintillating green lights of his irises were visible: never had he seemed more like a wraith before now.

"You think we have passes, 'get back to life frees'? People only go back when the stakes are highest, when all life is in danger, and when reality dangles by a thread. You can't go back to live, to enjoy your life. I'm letting you go back because you're right– you're the only one who can finally bring the cycle to an end, Shepard. Don't make this my mistake."

The operator stood up from his chair with finality. The screens behind him dissolved. The man reached behind for his pant pocket and pulled out a ring of colored keys. He picked through each one patiently, until he pulled off a key with a scarlet-colored stone on the end.

"Carnelian," the man murmured as he tossed it to Jane, "fitting, I suppose. Last chance to back out now."

But Jane wasn't looking at him. Outside the window, Pressly had come down from the Normandy. She didn't say anything— it was a silent communication that passed through their gazes— hers with regret, and his understanding and acceptance. She wasn't coming with him this time.

Slowly, they raised their hands solemnly for one last salute. With great effort, Pressly broke his lingering gaze and turned around to get back onto the ship, out of her life.

"Good luck, Jane." The operator said. "I'll be watching."

. .

Jane felt like her body was being sucked through a tube by navel. Kaleidoscopic swirls seeped into the insides of her eyelids and gravity's hold on her changed continuously. There was no air resistance or loud sounds, but something instinctual told her that she really didn't want to open her eyes.

It certainly wasn't what she expected after stepping through the doorway. Not that bad, actually. Reminded her of those days back in N7 camp, vertigo training.

Heat seeped out from the key in her palm. It would vibrate and give off a sense of tugging every once in a while, as if the little crystal key was exerting energy to pull her through. She supposed it made as much sense as anything.

Then the key started rattling severely. She started to hear faint voices…

"—expecting a report soon."

The key gave a final flash of heat, burning its way into her palm, and suddenly Shepard was splayed out on a cold surface. She opened her eyes immediately and reflexively sat up to a cold, clinical air.

"I don't need you reminding me, Wilson."

"...If you say so."

The woman harrumphed a little, before changing her tone.

"Agent Lawson, reporting in. Progress is slow, but subject shows signs of recovery. Major organs are again functional, and there are also signs of rudimentary neurological activity. Fully organic tissues have taken too long to process, so we are now using low quantities of bio-synthetic fusions to accelerate the process."

She was sitting on what looked to be an… operating table? The lab had took some similarities with Chakwas's medbay. There was a man standing right beside Shepard, typing on a console and seemingly unaware of his patient's awakening.

"On the other hand, the structural damage from Agent Rasa's defection was superficial. The weaknesses in the mech programming have been resolved and our cyberwarfare suits are back online. I have replaced the injured or lost personnel with reinforcements from Minuteman Station. The project will continue to run at full capacity. Weekly reports will be sent. Lawson out."

The source of the voice was a woman sitting at terminal at the end of the lab in a white uniform.

The man turned towards Shepard, and she recognized the logo printed on his left shoulder. Cerberus. Alarmed, she jumped off the table, threw her shoulder into the officer's chest— and tumbled right through.

"Miranda," the man said to colleague, completely oblivious. "her heart rate is spiking again."

The other Cerberus officer looked up from her station.

"Increase the size of the sedative dose. Don't let her wake up, Wilson."

"I don't understand. This shouldn't be happening. We just administered her one a few hours ago. The calculations can't just be wrong."

"You must've made an error."

"Impossible. These doses are enough to make even a krogan drowsy. Anymore and there might be adverse effects on the tissues." Wilson tapped on his display, and then the whirring of a machine. "There. Another one. Heartbeat slowing down. Heartbeat stabilizing. Vitals stabilizing."

Jane, still stunned from her flip into the medbay's walls, used a hand to steady her head. Halfway there, she stopped and stared at the hand. Imprinted on the skin, a red swirl curled across her palm. Except it was brighter and clearer than any tattoo, almost as if it was burned on… Right. It must have been the magic key that had also turned her into a ghost. She felt stupid for even thinking that in her head.

"Stay here and continue to monitor the subject's status, Wilson. I'll go and check over at D-wing. We might need to synthesize a kidney; the subject's left side was severely damaged. Results from urine tests have been fluctuating below normal range."

After Miranda left, Wilson stopped nodding and grumbled to himself.

"Right, and just leave me here to a creepy body for company. That bitch."

The female Cerberus officer left and the male took her station. It gave Shepard a clear look at the whole medbay— including the single patient lying prone on the second operating table. The subject was buried underneath a mask and a mess of tubes, but the vibrant red hair was a dead giveaway.

Her.


End file.
